Return of the General's Daughter
Chapter 96: The Black Propaganda

Chapter 96: The Black Propaganda

"They had archers stationed at the back of the walls," the commander said quickly, as if to justify their failure.

For the first time that night, something flickered in Turik’s eyes—something sharp and calculating.

"Indeed," he murmured, "General Odin is an exceptional strategist. He anticipated every move you made, Mayor."

Fuerte’s hands clenched into fists. His entire body trembled—not just with rage, but with a terrible, creeping realization. Had he backed the wrong side? Was he doomed?

"Did you send men to pursue them in Mount Roca?" he demanded.

The commander lowered his gaze again. "They’re on higher ground, Mayor. Pursuing them in the dead of the night would be suicide."

A wave of frustration crashed over Fuerte, his thoughts spinning wildly. He began pacing the room, his boots clicking against the wooden floor. "Magus, what now? You agreed to burn the town hall, and what did it accomplish? Nothing! Our soldiers even died by our hands." His voice cracked, raw with anger. He addressed the old advisor by his first name, showing the intensity of his anger.

Turik chuckled. A slow, deliberate sound that sent a shiver of irritation down Fuerte’s spine.

"Nothing?" Turik echoed, shaking his head with amusement. "Oh, Mayor... you underestimate the power of public hatred." He leaned forward, his lips curling into a sinister grin.

"Spread the word," he said smoothly. "Tell the people that the Northem soldiers burned the town hall. Let them believe it. Let them hate their supposed protectors. Fan the flames of their anger."

Fuerte’s eyes widened.

For the first time that night, a glimmer of hope sparked within him.

Why hadn’t he thought of that before?

...

At a distance, Bener stood beneath the branches of an old tree, his expression dark with worry. Beside him, Commander Amnon squinted at the faint glow flickering in the southern horizon.

"Is that fire?" Bener asked, his voice tense. Without waiting for an answer, he scrambled up the tree, his fingers gripping the rough bark as he climbed higher for a better view.

A sharp intake of breath. Then—"Holy shit!" he gasped. "The town is burning!"

Amnon followed his gaze, his eyes narrowing. The thick clouds above shifted, momentarily veiling the moon and plunging the earth in darkness. Their path forward would be impossible now.

"My father..." Bener’s voice wavered.

Amnon cut in before the younger man could spiral further.

"Your father is a brilliant general, Bener. He’s survived far worse and found his way out of the most precarious situations."

"But their numbers... what if there are too many enemies."

Amnon’s gaze lingered to the south, before he said in a calm voice. "It would be dawn soon. Let us take this opportunity to rest well."

...

At the first sign of the dawn breaking, Lara moved swiftly through the nearby forest, searching for sturdy branches and broad leaves. The afternoon before, she had noticed a towering kapok tree, its brown, capsule-like fruit bursting open with cotton-like seed fibers.

Lara climbed the tree, gathered as much fruit as she could, and put it in a sack. Then, she hurried back to her tent and made a makeshift sled. She layered thick leaves over the base, creating a cushion, then turned to Aramis. "Help me separate the kapok fibers from the seeds," she ordered.

Aramis groaned but complied, pulling apart the soft fibers. By the time the nine-thousand-strong army was ready to march toward Carles, Asael was already resting on the sled—lying comfortably atop the thick padding of leaves and the blanket stuffed with kapok fiber. A canopy of large leaves, secured to thin branches with small vines, would shield him from the harsh sun.

Two members of the Eagle Team had remained behind to escort their injured lieutenant. Somehow, they had managed to procure a horse, which they hitched to the sled. Now, traveling along the provincial road, Asael’s journey would be smoother—less taxing than before.

They needed to move faster, and Lara did not want to delay the troop because of Asael. She did not want to give General Marlon Norse a reason to stall.

...

By the time the sun had fully risen, the people of Carles who stubbornly stayed in town despite the looming danger of war gathered around the town center, their faces etched with grief and disbelief. They stood in clusters before what remained of their once-proud town hall.

The once majestic town hall was reduced to ashes. The gleaming face of the marble walls was scarred by soot and flame.

People wailed as the charred body of those who did not make it was lined up in the northern lawn. Four hundred people died in the fire, including the two hundred that could have escaped but whose lives were claimed by the arrows of their fellow soldiers.

The luckiest were the people who were locked up in the dungeon. Though they suffered from smoke inhalation, they were unscathed.

Yet, amid the despair, murmurs began to spread like embers caught in the wind.

"It’s the Northem soldiers... If not for them, our town hall would still be standing."

"That hall was the symbol of Carles. How could a fire consume it if they did not occupy it?"

"Life was better under Estalis. Why do they insist on making it harder for us? Killing our soldiers wasn’t enough—they had to burn our home too!"

And the whispers turned to growls of resentment. Voices rose. Fists clenched.

A man wearing a bamboo hat slipped away from the growing crowd. He moved with purpose, disappearing behind the shadows of a nearby shop before pushing open a concealed door.

Inside, a figure waited.

"Mayor, it’s done," the man said, his tone laced with satisfaction. "You may go out now... and fan the flames."

A sinister smile curled Mayor Fuerte’s lips.

A moment later, the front door of the shop creaked open, and the Mayor emerged, his face a mask of devastation.

Tears glistened in his eyes as he staggered forward, grief written in every movement. Reaching the steps of the ruined town hall, he collapsed onto his knees, his voice rising in a wail that echoed through the square.

"Woe to us, people of Carles!" he cried, voice cracking. "The heavens have turned their backs on us! How else could such a catastrophe befall our beloved town?"

The crowd stirred, their sorrow twisting into rage.

Mayor Fuerte turned toward the ruins, extending a trembling hand. "Look at it! The once-mighty, majestic symbol of Carles!" His breath hitched, and he clutched his chest as if the very sight of it caused him unbearable pain. "Our town hall... our pride and joy... reduced to nothing but ash!"

Inside the shop, two figures watched from a window.

Turik chuckled, shaking his head. "Your Mayor is in the wrong profession," he mused, voice thick with amusement. "With acting like that, he could be the lead in a play."

The older man beside him—Magus—said nothing. His face burned with shame.

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